


Home is Wherever I'm With You

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: True Love or Something [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Neighbors, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “Lance. It’s a virus.  You just treat the symptoms and wait it out.”  “But that’s crap!  Allura, you’re a doctor, you miracle-cure people!”  “One, that’s not how my job works, and two, just admit you should have gotten a flu shot and tell your boyfriend you’re sick so he can take care of you.” 
Lance gets sick and refuses to admit that maybe Keith was right and he should have gotten a flu shot when he had the chance.  Keith attempts to be nurturing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, EVERYBODY! Your kind reviews make me so happy, thank you so much for your support for these crazy space kids. 
> 
> This fic's a gift for a dear friend of mine, who sadly has a flu-like bug and requested a sick Lance fluff fic. Fan fiction is the very best medicine, right? And I've got a head cold so this is partially a pick-me-up for me too.

**Home is Wherever I’m With You**

Lance has a fantastic immune system, okay? He never gets sick, hell would have to freeze over, Satan would have to find a new career in frozen yogurt manufacturing for Lance to get even the slightest sniffle. As he has said, many times, at various (high) volumes, working with kids at the Community Center has successfully inoculated him against anything short of the bubonic plague. He is essentially immortal, invincible and incapable of getting sick.

            That’s why, when flu season starts up, he’s not too worried about getting a flu shot, despite Keith’s many increasingly passive-aggressive sticky-note reminders about it, including a memorable one placed over the top of his coffee cup.

            “KEITH!” Lance yells when he’s managed to spit the vile thing out and read what’s written on it in Keith’s dramatic, spiky handwriting.

            “Yes?” Keith says, peering around the corner into the kitchen, the picture of innocence.

            “What the fuck?! Why are you trying to kill me with paper products?”

            Keith’s brows draw together bemusedly, “Why didn’t you look at what you were drinking?”

            “Because it’s coffee! I trust my coffee!”

            Keith shakes his head and goes to walk away, “It’s a cruel world out there, Lance. I suggest you get used to it.”

            “It wouldn’t be so cruel if _someone_ didn’t _booby trap my coffee_!”

            Keith’s head reappears in the doorway, “Maybe, if you got a flu shot, these things wouldn’t happen to you.”

            Lance pulls a face, “It’s no big deal; I only get one like half the time anyway. It’s fine, I never get sick.”

            Keith narrows his eyes distrustfully. “Get a flu shot,” he says decisively before vanishing back around the corner.

            “I don’t have to listen to you!” Lance yells after him because he’s mature and rolls his eyes when Keith’s smug laughter drifts back to him from the living room.

…

            Technically, Lance doesn’t have to listen to Keith or his passive-aggressive sticky notes (which are actually kind of sweet in an I-care-about-you-you-little-shit sort of way). Lance is an adult. An adult who never gets sick.

            He doesn’t get a flu shot.

…

            “Ugh,” Lance collapses face-first on the couch and Keith, who was, coincidentally, already lying there. “Honey, I’m home,” he mutters into Keith’s clavicle.

            Keith, still wheezing a little from Lance’s sudden descent, glares at him from under his bangs, “Was that necessary?”

            Lance, out of energy, just rubs his face on Keith’s shirt like a cat, “Tired. Long day. All the kids are sick.”

            “Your hair is full of glue.”

            “Sick kids can’t run around as much, we did lots of crafts and story-time.”

            “You hair is short, how did they get this much glue in it?” Keith asks in a tone of horrified fascination, fingers combing through Lance’s hair, trying to pick some of the gunk out.

            “Raw talent,” Lance grumbles, “They climbed on me a lot. Apparently story time means ‘Mr. Lance is a jungle-gym’ time.”

            “Ew, you’re covered in sick kid germs,” Keith makes a face and it’s adorable but Lance is too wiped out to do more than chuckle at his boyfriend’s scrunched-up nose and cute frown.

            “I know. It’s not like we can send them home. Unless they’re like, hospital-level sick we can’t really kick them out. It’s a Community Center. We host after-school programs for kids whose parents have to work. Kicking out the sickies is kind of a no-can-do.”

            “You’re going to get us both sick.”

            “Nah, I have a super-immune system.”

            “Fine, you’re going to get _me_ sick.”

            “Eh, you had your flu shot.”

            Keith just sighs and swats at his shoulders, “Get off and go shower, you’re heavy and covered in kid germs.”

            Lance tries for a seductive smile but he’s pretty sure he lands more on the side of ‘too exhausted to function’. “Only if you join me.”

            “Your hair is literally glued to your head. Idiot, clean thyself,” Keith says disdainfully, but softens the snark with a soft kiss, “I’ll make dinner.”

            Lance grumbles some more and demands a few more kisses before slinking off to wash the day’s trials and tribulations off his skin.

            That should have been that.

…

            It starts as a scratchy throat.

            “Babe, do we have any tea?” Lance asks, digging around the kitchen cabinets.

            “Um, maybe?” Keith says, “Don’t we keep some for when Allura comes over?”

            “Huh, looks like we’re out. I guess I’ll go steal some from Pidge and Hunk.”

            “Is there something going on?” Keith looks up from the rehearsal report he’d been typing, head tipped to the side, a few flyaway bangs escaping the clips he’d used to pull his hair away from his eyes.

            Lance shrugs awkwardly, “Oh, nothing, just got a craving for some tea.”

            Keith’s eyes narrow and Lance is pretty sure Keith’s using that special stage manager x-ray vision that sees everything, especially the stuff you don’t want him to see. “If you’re getting sick –”

            “Me? Sick? _Nah_. Just a scratchy throat.”

            “I thought it was a craving.”

            “ _And_ a scratchy throat. I’m just gonna…go and get that tea.” He bolts for the dumbwaiter before Keith can stop him and interrogate him further.

            It’s no big deal. Really.

…

            He wakes up the next morning feeling like death warmed over and 100% sure of only one thing – he cannot not tell Keith about this. He gently, head pounding, eases himself upright, ignoring the way he can _feel_ something horrible shift in his sinuses, and peels off the arm Keith had thrown over his waist in his sleep. Keith mumbles a sleepy protest but doesn’t wake up. Lance is pretty sure just doing _that_ sapped all his energy, but no, if he’s going to hide being sick from Keith he’s going to have to do much more than sit up and detach himself from his boyfriend.

            But standing up seems like so much _work._

            His throat feels like someone scrubbed it raw with sandpaper then poured acid on the open wounds, maybe sprinkled on some salt for good measure. He can’t breathe through his nose and that tickle in the back of this throat and hitch in his chest is telling him he’s in for some serious coughing soon.

            Fuck.

            With great effort and no small amount of lightheadedness, Lance manages to make it out of bed and onto his own two feet. He shuffle-trudges downstairs, feeling flushed and slightly dizzy, like being drunk without the fun parts and plus horrifying ear, nose and throat pain. He stops by the kitchen, then remembers they still don’t have tea and forces himself to crawl through the dumbwaiter to raid Pidge and Hunk’s stash in their kitchen. It’s possibly the most physically draining thing he’s ever done. By the time he makes it back to his and Keith’s side of the duplex he kind of just wants to sink to the floor and sit there cradling his box of tea until he stops feeling half dead. But if he does that, he’s never going to get any tea and Keith will eventually find him and know that he, Keith, was right all along.

            That makes the ‘stay sitting on the floor forever’ option seem less appealing.

            So Lance forces himself upright and totters into the kitchen, where he fills a mug with water and sticks it in the microwave because today is not the day for Lance to be using the stove. He sags against the counter and coughs, smothering the sound in his elbow so not to wake Keith.

            When the microwave dings he pulls out the mug and dunks one of the tea bags in it. Thank god for Allura, otherwise they’d never have any tea in the house.

            Wait…Allura…she was a _doctor_ ; she could _fix_ him.

            Without thinking, juggling his tea and his phone, Lance pulls up Allura’s number on his phone and punches it in. It’s a few moments before she answers, but then she’s there on the other end of the line.

            “Lance? What’s up?”

            “How do you cure the flu?”

            “What?”

            Lance sighs, this concept should not be that hard, “The flu. I need a miracle cure like, now.”

            “Lance, if you have the flu…”

            “Okay, it’s probably not the flu,” he backpedals, “but I kind of didn’t get a flu shot this year so it _could_ be the flu. I feel like death, Allura, I need to know how to fix this like, immediately.”

            Allura sighs, “Symptoms?”

            “What?”

            “What are your symptoms?”

            “Oh.” He lists them, Allura humming in confirmation with each one.

            “Yeah,” she says when he finishes, “I can’t give an official diagnosis over the phone but it sounds like you have a nasty cold or a mild flu or flu-like virus.”

            “Sweet, now tell me how to fix it.”

            “Lots of fluids, rest, some Dayquil and Nyquil, Mucinex to loosen up the gunk…”

            “Yes, but will any of those make me healthy in an hour or less.”

            “Lance. It’s a virus. You just treat the symptoms and wait it out.”

            “But that’s crap! _Allura,_ you’re a doctor, you miracle-cure people!”

            “One, that’s not how my job works, and two, just admit you should have gotten a flu shot and tell your boyfriend you’re sick so he can take care of you.”

            Lance sputters, “How did you - ? Why would I - ?”

            He can practically _hear_ the look she’s giving him.

            “Okay, fine, you’re right.”

            “I normally am,” she says bluntly, “Now, get some rest and let your boyfriend take care of you!”

            “Bye Allura.”

            Well this sucks.

…

            Lance ends up calling in sick to work. He briefly considers just toughing it out but putting on his shoes makes the world spin crazily so he figures he’s better off staying home. Plus, this way he won’t infect the handful of healthy kids they have left. He briefly considers dragging himself back upstairs and just cuddling up with Keith…but then he remembers the literal _month_ of flu shot notes and his stubborn pride rallies and prevails.

            He fills his mug with water again and sticks it back in the microwave. Time for more tea.

…

            Eventually he realizes that he needs to _return_ his pilfered tea at some point. Which admittedly puts a damper on his whole water-microwave-tea-repeat party. But Pidge and Hunk will be up soon and while Pidge drinks nothing but coffee black as her soul in the mornings, Hunk sometimes likes some variety and knowing Lance’s luck this would be a rare morning where the big guy goes for the tea.

            So Lance hauls himself upright (with great effort) and crawls back through the dumbwaiter. He makes it to the other side sweating and shaking, an unhealthy flush crawling up his skin to eat up his face and neck. God, no wonder people hate being sick, this _sucks._

            He manages to make it to the kitchen and get the tea back in its usual spot when a sudden noise and Pidge’s groggy voice saying, “What the hell are you doing in our kitchen?” startles him into an ill-advised jump-spin. And oh, hey, the world’s spinning again…and the ground’s flying up to meet him and the blood is rushing through his head, he can hear it sloshing against his skull…and he’s out like a light.

…

            He wakes up a few seconds later to Pidge screaming and wonders for a moment if maybe he would have been better off staying unconscious.

            “Holy fuck-shit-what-the-fucking-LANCE! WAKE UP YOU BASTARD! Oh god, ugh, you jerk, Stop. Being. Unconscious!”

            Lance blinks blearily, “I don’t think you’re supposed to hit the guy who just passed out on your kitchen floor.”

            Pidge, who had been swatting at him, breathes a gusty sigh of relief, “Oh thank god, you’re not dead.”

            “No,” Lance groans, “But I kind of feel like it.”

            The sudden thunder of Hunk’s footsteps interrupts whatever Pidge was preparing to shout at him.

            “Pidge, what happened? I heard a crash and screaming? Lance? Why are you one the floor?”

            “It’s a very long story, big guy,” Lance groans.

            “Lance is sick and passed out on our kitchen floor when I startled him, “Pidge explains, ever blunt.

            “Why were you in our kitchen?” Hunk asks.

            Lance sighs, “You guys had tea and I didn’t want Keith to know I’m sick.”

            “Too late for that,” a new – or not-so-new – voice joins the conversation. Lance looks up to see Keith standing over him, arms folded, looking every inch the pissed off grumpy-cat Lance knows and loves. “Allura called me,” Keith says, looking miffed.

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah, _oh_. Now let us help you up so we can get your diseased ass out of Hunk and Pidge’s nice, clean, germ-free house.”

            “You’re not going to make fun of me for the flu shot thing?”

            “I’ll save the teasing for when you’re not dying of plague and scaring the hell out of me and our friends.”

            “You’re a good man, Keith Kogane.”

            “I know.”

            “I love you.”

            “I know.”

            “Stop Han-Soloing me!”

            Behind them, Pidge snickers shakily, “At least the flu left his personality intact.”

…

            So apparently it’s really dumb to hide when you’re sick from Keith Kogane because he can transform like a Pokemon only instead of an awesome fighting creature he turns into the Ultimate Awkward Mother Hen. Like, he’d be less awkward about it if his version of nurturing didn’t boil down to bullying Lance onto the couch, smothering him in blankets and marching off to the kitchen with a glare and a “stay put, I’m getting supplies.”

            Supplies for what? Were they braving the Oregon Trail or something?

            Keith comes back with a thermometer, “take this,” 30 mL of Dayquil “drink this”, and a frown when the thermometer tells him the obvious, that Lance has a fever. His frown deepens when he looks at Lance and, surprisingly tenderly, reaches out to run a hand over his forehead, like he needs to double-check that fever confirmation. “Is your stomach bothering you? Are you hungry?”

            Lance just kind of nods because his throat hurts and he’s done talking and hey, it’s surprisingly nice to just melt into a puddle and let someone else take care of his problems.

            “Okay,” Keith says, voice surprisingly gentle, “I’m gonna get you some ginger ale and heat up some soup, okay? You just stay here.”

            Lance nods, but his eyes are already slipping closed. He almost misses it when Keith leans over and kisses his forehead.

…

            He wakes up an uncertain amount of time later, to the smell of chicken soup and the soft pop-fizz of ginger ale carbonation. Keith sits on the coffee table opposite him. One bowl of soup is in his hands, the other sits on the table. Lance scrunches himself upright, refusing to vacate his blanket cocoon, and reaches out grabby hands for the soup. Keith rolls his eyes but sets his own bowl aside to pass Lance his.

            “Careful, it’s hot.”

            Lance tries to listen to him – hey look, personal growth! – and only takes a small bite. “Hey…wait…” he says, eyes narrowing suspiciously, “this isn’t Campbell’s…”

            Keith snorts, “Of course not.”

            “You…made me homemade soup?”

            Keith shrugs, “It’s not hard. You were asleep for a couple hours.”

            “ _You made me homemade soup._ ”

            Keith shifts, apparently uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “If it’s bad I’ll eat it and make you ramen or something.”

            “Noooo,” Lance says, pulling away, back into the couch and curling protectively around the bowl, “My soup.”

            Keith raises an eyebrow, “Okay, then.”

            “You just…didn’t have to do that.”

            Keith shrugs again, “It’s what Shiro used to do for me. When I was sick.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. Mom…wasn’t always paying attention. She didn’t always know what to do when one of us was sick, I guess. I dunno. I think she just figured that whatever was wrong with us would fix itself and if it didn’t we’d go to the doctor and that was that. Shiro was more of a nurturer than she was. He wasn’t always around, he lived with his dad during the school year, but when Mom died I went to live with him. I was fifteen, he was twenty-three. I didn’t know how to be taken care of. I didn’t get it. But he made me homemade soup when I was sick and picked me up from school and actually _made me go_ to school. I wanted to be like him when I grew up.”

            “This is the same guy who cage fought in Canada and went on a martial arts vision quest?”

            “He did some crazy stuff when he was eighteen. He does crazy stuff now. But he was pretty much the most stable home I had as a kid. Anyway, you’re sick. So I made you Shiro’s soup.”

            “One of these days I’m going to meet this brother guy.”

            “I’m sure you will.”

            They smile at each other and Lance can feel another piece slot into place in the bridge between them.

…

            “So what did we learn?”      

            “Ugh. I’m feeling better, let me enjoy it.”

            “No, I put this off until you were well enough to take it. _What did we learn_?”

            “That I should definitely get a flu shot every year,” Lance parrots back blandly.

            “And?”

            “That Keith is really _pretty_ and _nice_ and…”

            Keith hits him with a pillow.

            “and is always right.”

            “Ha,” Keith says and then abruptly sneezes once, twice, three times. They pause and stare at each other a moment. “If you got me sick…”

            “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

…

            It’s not nothing. “I think I’m dying,” Keith whines, curling into a tight ball of pathetic in their bed.

            “It’s okay, babe, I’ll take care of you.”

            Keith glares at him from under his bangs, “This means nothing. You’re still getting a flu shot.”

            “Whatever you say, babe.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title is from 'Home' by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes again. 
> 
> I promise I will eventually fit Shiro into a story for this series as an actual character...eventually...


End file.
